Mr Holmes' Physician
by theavidreader13
Summary: Recently invalidated John H Watson is looking for work when he stumbles upon a job being a personal physician to one Sherlock Holmes. He really has no idea what he's getting into, especially with his new four-year-old son Henry running amok (long story.) Basically the progression of Sherlock's understanding of a family. Betaed by ThatGirlWhoWantsToBeAwesome.
1. Chapter 1

Noise. Dust. Screams. Red. Heat.

The world seemed to tilt over its own head as John frantically worked to save the life of the soldier in front of him. Bullet to the femoral artery, (luckily it was just a graze, but it was still a major artery) and he was bleeding out fast. Sand wafted up into John's eyes as his ears were bombarded by the loud cries of dying men and the boom of artillery fire as the Taliban raged unmercifully against them.

John's unit had been brought to a tiny Afghan village that, (or so they were told) was not very sympathetic to the crazed plan that the Taliban wrought and were willing to help rebels and British forces, not to mention that they had wounded of their own in desperate need of treatment. Without hesitation, John and his fellow RAMC men had gone unblinkingly into the village to answer the pleading, helpless cries of injured rebels.

It hadn't been more than three minutes when the all-too familiar burst of explosions sounded, and John realised it was all an ambush.

He pressed a cloth bandage against the young soldier's wound, mind going mile a minute as he tried to think of a way to treat him so he wouldn't die out on him. The boy - because really, he couldn't have been more than twenty-two, so yes, he was a boy - looked up at him with clear fear in his eyes, fear of that ever-approaching oblivion known as Death, but John tied a tourniquet with a fresh bandage over the wound, administered some hefty painkillers, and somehow knew the soldier would come out alive.

Then pain.

Burning hot, absolutely searing pain erupted in his shoulder, and John fell to the ground from the sheer force of it. He risked a glance at the afflicted area and winced at the sight of bright crimson blood - his blood - trickling out from a wound in his shoulder. He could see the muscle was torn, shrapnel embedded in his skin, and wondered just how long it would be until he died of blood loss. He gritted his teeth, grabbed some tools from his medical kit, and desperately began stitching up the wound.

The rest was a haze.

Dimly he saw one of the nurses - Bill Murray, his rattled brain offered - sprint towards him with a grim look of terror on his face and scoop him up by the legs just as a bullet whizzed right past his ears. John absentmindedly knew that if the bullet in his shoulder didn't kill him, that one surely would have done the trick.

Murray, bless his soul, had the foresight to make sure John and the soldier he had been treating were both transported safely back to camp, an action he was positive saved both their lives. When the two arrived they were immediately taken to triage, and John narrowly escaped death in emergency surgery. Afterward John had to be flown back to base and receive additional treatment, and it was there the doctors told him a) he was a lucky son of a gun to be alive, b) the soldier he'd been treating was doing just fine, and c) he had a tremor in his hand that ensured he could never be in the RAMC again.

When John succumbed to a violent three-week-long fever after that bombshell that left his health in tatters and found out about his limp from a bloody psychosomatic leg, he didn't feel like a lucky son of a gun.

He felt crushed.

The first person to see John when he was cleared for visitors at the base was Murray. John looked at him, surprised, when he opened the door and grinned at John.

"How the hell did you get here?"

Murray shrugged. "Just about begged and compromised and negotiated with Sholto for a week straight. Knew I had to see how you were." His eyes narrowed. "You look like shit."

John smiled mirthlessly. "Tends to happen when you get shot. And why are you really here? Don't give me that Sholto bull, he would never let you leave camp without good reason. You're our best nurse." A twinge of pain flickered through John when he said our, remembering that he was no longer allowed to say that. Thankfully Murray didn't notice, only shifted nervously side to side on his feet like a schoolboy. "I've got good news, bad news, and urgent news. Which one do you need to hear first?"

The doctor grimaced and adjusted his shoulder on the hospital bed, "Good."

Murray reached into his fatigues, looking furtively around the room, and pulled out an all-too-familiar-looking pistol. John immediately recognised it as his Sig. "I was able to smuggled this out. Figured you might like it, especially since, y'know." He padded forward with a wide smile and placed it into John's open hand, who took it gratefully. He looked up at Murray with gratitude in his eyes. "Thanks, mate."

The nurse took a step back, cheery grin faded. "You ready for the bad news?" He seemed rather uncomfortable, and John steeled himself mentally.

"I'm so sorry, but there was an, ah, incident. Involving your sister-in-law. She was in a cab on the way home and the driver didn't see the black ice that spun the cab into a tree. She and the driver died upon impact."

John felt numb. Clara dead. Oh, Harry… He could sense his mouth moving but wasn't really paying attention to what he was saying. "Harry? How is she?"

Murray winced. "Landlady found her unresponsive in her flat after she found out. She called 999, but it was too late. She had swallowed a cup of bleach, dead before she hit the floor."

The once-proud army captain slumped back into his bed. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to think. Hell, he didn't even know what to feel. "Shit."

Murray let out a humourless chuckle. "That's not the half of it. Are you good for the urgent news?"

A feeling of ominous anxiety curled up like a snake in John's gut. "It's Henry, isn't it?" he asked, with the monotonous voice of a person who's been faced with much more than they can be possibly asked to handle.

The nurse winced. "You mean your nephew?"

John felt a pang of guilt at the word. He had met Henry when his sister first adopted him about two years before - a little tot who had a dimple in one cheek and light brown curls, along with an adorable smile. That was before John went on his second tour to Afghanistan, and in the brief, happy period when Harry had forsaken the bottle.

Of course, it didn't last very long, and John has much too preoccupied with trying to not get shot - look how well that turned out - to try to reconnect with Harry, much less see his nephew. "How old is he now? Four, isn't it?"

"I'm not sure, I just got sent here because your sister-in-law doesn't have any kin with an interest in taking Henry and you're his uncle, so the foster system needs to know if you want to keep him. Of course, you don't -" He silenced himself with a warning glare from the fallen soldier in the bed.

An internal battle began to rage inside of John. He was a doctor who couldn't be a doctor, a soldier who couldn't be a soldier, a Captain who couldn't be a Captain. He was invalidated, had a cane, a tremor, a broken spirit with broken dreams. He didn't even have any income besides the pitiful pension that would come when John was finally shipped off the merry ol' England.

In other words? John Watson was not parent material.

An image of Harry floated into his brain, an image before the drink took over and when she was smiling, happy, blond hair gleaming with her glowing demeanour. She's gone.

Dammit. Henry was his dead sister's son, and no matter how much the two had fought and argued and slammed doors on each other, family was blasted family and John knew he would never be able to look at himself in the mirror if he abandoned his only nephew now.

Biology be damned.

So he squared his jaw, steeled his posture, and met Murray with a firm gaze. "I'll take him."


	2. Chapter 2

Henry squinted out the window of the taxi, more than a tad nervous and most definitely apprehensive. The tall, hook-nosed woman from the orphanage - _Mrs Simone_ , he corrected himself - had told him he was going to meet his new father, and that he should be on his best behaviour because he wasn't getting a new one. That was before Mrs Simone turned Henry's meager closet inside out and roughly stuffed him into a cab. She didn't like Henry, possibly due to the time Henry accidentally spilled boiling hot tea over her favourite dress. While she had thrown Henry's clothes into a yellow duffel bag the boy could hear her mumbling, "Hope that new father teaches that child some sense."

But Henry wanted his Mummy. He liked Mummy. Mummy was nice with long brown hair and kind eyes and patted his hair a lot and made him cookies. Mama wasn't there a lot and smelled funny. Henry hated that smell because then Mummy would get sad and Mama would yell.

The smell didn't matter anymore though, because Mama and Mummy were gone. A pretty lady with a gentle voice who had taken him from his flat and back to the orphanage told him they were in heaven, and that he was going to get a new daddy who was Mama's brother. Henry had asked why he couldn't just go to heaven with his mummy. The lady had started to cry and told him he couldn't, and while Henry had felt bad, he still wanted Mummy.

Yet his wishes and wants fell on Mrs Simone's unrelentingly deaf ears, and Henry was getting taken to a new daddy. The pretty lady and Mrs Simone both said to be nice and polite, so Henry had every hope to do just that - if he couldn't have Mummy, he could have a new daddy, and that was certainly better than staying back at the orphanage.

When the cab stopped Henry climbed out onto the pavement. In front of him stood a man. He wasn't very tall - Mama had been a bit taller - and he had a real smile (Henry knew the difference due to recent weeks spent with worn-out social workers) and a black cane tipped with silver steel in his hand. He looked like a nice man, wearing a simple grey jumper and jeans.

"Hello, Henry," the man said, looking down at him. There was something off in his eyes, which were warm and kind but held an undertone of something very sad indeed. "You're a strapping young lad, aren't you?"

The four-year-old grinned. Mummy always told him to smile and say thank you when people said that. "Thank you."

"Have you got your things? My flat's just round the corner." Henry reached back into the cab and pulled out his duffel bag while his new daddy dug a few crumpled notes from his pocket and tossed them at the cabbie, who grinned and drove off. The man stared at Henry's bag. "That's all?"

"Mrs Simone said to bring only the important things, that too much would bother you. Would it bother you, Daddy?"

Surprise spread across the other's face. "I mean, ah, it's fine. I wouldn't have minded either way. We can get the rest of your things later. Henry?"

"Yes?"

His new daddy coughed a little. "You don't have to call me Daddy if you don't want to."

"But Mrs Simone -"

"Doesn't know what she's talking about. My name is John, so you can call me Uncle John."

Henry's face grew serious as he took the idea into deep consideration, his eyes lighting when he came to a decision. "What about Papa?" he asked, carrying the duffel bag as they walked to the flat. Amusement crossed the other's face. "That's just fine, Henry."

There was a brief moment of silence as Henry looked at Papa's limp, which dragged heavily across the sidewalk. His British politeness warred with childish curiosity for about the span of five seconds before curiosity proved to be the much more intriguing path to take. "What happened to your leg?"

A flicker of pain shot through Papa's eyes before he gave a tight smile and said, "Nothing."

"Then why do you walk funny?" The second the words were out Henry's eyes widened in horror and he wished he could take them back. Mrs Simone _told_ him to be polite, and now his Papa probably wouldn't want him anymore and Mummy couldn't do anything because she was in heaven and Henry would end up back at the orphanage -

His runaway-train-like fears were relieved when Papa let out a bark of laughter. "Well, Henry, about a few weeks ago I was an army doctor, a soldier." Papa mimicked an army march and Henry giggled at the scene.

"How come you're not a soldier anymore?"

"I was helping this young man get better when something bad happened to my shoulder. Right here." Papa patted his left shoulder lightly. "And since my body is still trying to fix it, I got a limo. That's why I walk funny."

Henry stared at his shoulder. "When's it gonna get better?"

Papa glanced at Henry kindly, but his eyes held a bitter undertone. "I don't know. Soon, hopefully."

"I hope it gets better," Henry said with all the naivete of a boy who cannot understand war.

Papa chuckled. "I guess. We're here, the brown door with the silver handle. Room 36, to your left - I'll show you your bedroom.

They walked into the flat. Henry looked around and grinned when he saw the large window off to the side. It was bigger than any other window Henry had seen, and had a birds-eye view over all of London. He rushed over to it, peering as tiny people mulled about like ants just minding their own business. Even the Eye seemed small against the rain-threatening clouds. "This is cool!"

Henry felt more than saw his papa's smile, far more preoccupied with staring out into the London skyline. "Right nice view, isn't it? You get settled. Want to see your room?"

The little boy shook his head, enraptured in the sights. "Okay then, Henry. You've had breakfast already, correct?"

"No. Mrs Simone told me we didn't have enough time." Henry heard a little muttering come from his papa, but chose not to address it. "Is there tea?"

"What kind of person would I be if I didn't have tea and biscuits? You want any?"

Henry giggled. "Yes please!"

XxX

Over the next six weeks Henry and his papa entered a new routine. Henry was not old enough to go to school yet, but Papa had insisted on a nursery while he went out to find work. Papa woke Henry up in the morning for nursery, and they ate breakfast in the flat's kitchenette before they caught a cab to 223 Baker Street, which was the nursery address. Once they arrived Papa would say hello to Mrs Turner, who ran the preschool, and head back out.

Henry didn't like how no one offered a job to his papa. It made Papa worry, and when he would go to pick up Henry from Baker Street he had a faraway look in his eyes. Henry always asked what was wrong, but Papa would just laugh and ruffle Henry's hair, saying "Nothing."

But Henry knew the difference between a real and a fake laugh. Mummy used the fake one a lot when Mama went out.

As for his adoptive parents, Henry did miss them. Specifically Mummy. During the first few weeks he would cry a lot at night, thinking he would go back to Mrs Simone, or just plain hoping that Mummy was there. Papa had bad dreams too, and when Henry or Papa woke crying they would go to the other and have a cup of tea.

Tea always shushed the bad dreams.

However slowly, Henry was beginning to love his new life. He had harboured a fear for the first few weeks that something bad would happen to Papa and Henry would have to say good-bye again. When the four-week mark came and went, though, Henry became much more relaxed. And his papa was a kind man - sometimes he would take Henry out to get sweets when he picked him up from the nursery.

The nursery itself was okay in Henry's eyes. Mrs Turner was a pretty, elderly lady, albeit strict, and loved forcing heaps of porridge down Henry's throat. Once Mrs Turner was sick (she had a shoulder) and Mrs Hudson from next door filled in. She absolutely adored Henry and the others in the nursery - Daphne, Niles, and Michael. Mrs Hudson didn't shove porridge down anyone's throats, instead feeding them biscuits with jam, and telling them stories about her mad renter in 221 B. "He went and left a pig's head in the fridge," she said once, pouring tea before the wide eyes of the four children. "Can you imagine? In the fridge! My hip almost gave out, I had to take an extra evening soother."

Daphne, Niles, and Michael were all relatively childish children, and Henry got along well with them. His favourite game was pirates - Mrs Turner had a decently sized collection of hats, a big black flimsy one being among them - and the four of them often caused ruckus by hiding a family heirloom of Mrs Turner's and then forgetting where they put it.

One oddly warm autumn day Papa came in the cab to pick Henry up with a cheerful glow on his face. Even Mrs Turner noticed it, slyly commenting on whether Papa had "been on the prowl." Papa laughed and shook his head. "No, Mrs Turner, just got some really needed news. Come along, Henry."

Henry bounced down the stairs with a grin. He liked cheerfulness. Cheerfulness usually meant ice cream, and Henry positively lived and breathed for ice cream.

The ride home was spent in anticipation for ice cream, and Henry bursted through the door and crash-landed on the sofa, staring at his papa. "So what was the good news?"

Papa chuckled. "You're a perceptive one, aren't you?"

Henry shrugged, then whined, "Come on, tell me!"

Still laughing, Papa sat down next to Henry with a happy, relieved look on his face. "I got a job."

Henry's eyes widened and he whooped in glee. Even though he was only four, he understood that a job was sorely needed for his papa. "Really? Where? Is it good? How-"

"Slow down there, love," Papa said, coming over to sit next to Henry on the sofa. "Going faster than an aeroplane there. One at a time for the old man, please."

Henry giggled. Papa rarely called himself "the old man," so it was relished whenever he did. "What is it?"

"Since I can't work as a surgeon," Papa scowled at his left hand, "I put an ad in the paper. Personal physician, caregiver, you know. It was kind of a last minute thing, and I didn't think anyone would really call." Papa grinned and pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket. It was covered from top to bottom in his scrawled, hurried handwriting. "But someone did, and now I'm officially the personal physician to," he checked the paper, "one Mr Sherlock Holmes."

The boy's nose wrinkled. "That's a funny name, Papa."

Papa's eyes narrowed. "However funny his name is, Henry, he's still our new method of money." Henry bowed his head in apology. "Next question?" his papa asked, seeing his son was thoroughly chastised.

Henry raised his head thoughtfully to the ceiling and then asked, "How much does it pay you?"

"Enough for us to be alright," Papa said raising an eyebrow. You do know you shouldn't worry so about that. You've got other things."

Henry pouted. "Like what?"

"Like _school_ ," his papa answered, looking at his son sternly. Henry merely scowled and slumped further into the sofa. "But school hasn't even _started_ yet."

"School may have not started now, but remember that it's going to start soon enough," Papa said, watching with amusement as the boy sulked. "And you haven't even begun _primary_ school yet. After that is secondary school and uni to go through."

The little boy frowned. "Why am I going to uni?"

Immediately Papa's face darkened, and Henry backpedaled as fast as he could. "Of course I'm gonna go to uni! I can't imagine not going, and I'm going to learn more stuff and be awesome! Right, Papa?"

Papa's features softened into a self-satisfied smile. "That's my boy," he said fondly. "Now, what's your next question?"

Henry, safely reassured he would be spared a long lecture - his papa had been a Captain, and along the way had perfected the art of giving lectures - pursed his lips before speaking. "Where is it?"

A slow smile snuck its way up Papa's face. "That's the surprising part. I asked and turns out that the man I'm a caregiver to is Mrs Turner's neighbour's renter."

Henry's mouth dropped down in shock. "Oh no, Papa. Mrs Hudson's renter is," the little boy looked around furtively, " _mad_."

Papa looked at him disapprovingly. "You haven't even met him. How would you know?"

Henry knew better than to argue. "Okay, I guess. One more question?"

"Go ahead."

"When do you start?"

"Next week, Monday through Saturday." Papa chewed at the corner of his mouth, clearly discomforted by something. "And there's one thing I don't like about it, and it needs to be approved by you."

The little boy frowned. He had no idea what could possibly need his "approval." "What's that?"

"Well, I go in after I drop you off at Mrs Turner's to Mr Holmes' flat. He requires my help until five, so you have two options: come with me or stay with Mrs Turner."

Henry thought about it. He liked Mrs Turner, but he didn't think he could take three more hours of porridge, and besides, he loved hearing Mrs Hudson's stories. For Henry, the choice was clear. "I don't want to stay with Mrs Turner."

Papa gave him a searching look. "Are you sure? You won't get bored or something like that while I'm working? I won't have time to look after you and you must be on your best behaviour, and -"

The boy interrupted - he knew interrupting was bad, but the situation seemed to demand it - and said, "Papa, I'll be fine. I can stay downstairs with Mrs Hudson."

"I'll ask if that would be okay, Henry." Papa leant back in his chair, looking relieved. "Good. That's settled then." He grinned widely. "Ice cream?"

Henry practically ran out the door.

XxX

Sherlock was playing a mournful, practically funeral-worthy rendition of Beethoven when Mycroft entered the living room of 221 B Baker Street. Mrs Hudson looked at the former detective with a dark, cloudy aura over his head, then at the politician with a grim, determined look on his face,and decided it would likely be in her best interest to vacate the premises. With a typical Brit-polite greeting to Mycroft, she picked up her skirts and fled.

The violin solo did not stop, even when Mycroft cleared his throat. If anything, the permeating black mood Sherlock emanated grew stronger. Finally Mycroft broke music with words.

"Brother dear, I have news regarding you," Mycroft said, carefully advancing towards the young man, who put his violin down with a glare at his brother. Sherlock wished he would stop, and would have gotten up to throw something (preferably at his posh, fat brother) if he had the ability to get up and throw something. A vase would have done quite nicely against his brother's damnable, politician-perfected mask of calm nonchalance.

The former detective looked down at his wheelchair-bound legs and cursed. "A case, Mycroft, I need a case! And I _know_ you can give me one, _brother dear_. Just something small, I don't care," Sherlock raised his arms dramatically, "something to fight this boredom. _I'm bored!"_

His brother merely glanced at him, sadness the only emotion that escaped the icy, indifferent persona he had crafted and portrayed brilliantly in the offices and halls of several high-ranking and unmentionable people. "You know very well why you can't take a case, Sherlock. Some would say tha in many ways you are still very lucky to retain movement above the knees. You heard what Dr Phillips said. You have-"

"A close to nonexistent chance of ever recovering the use of the muscles below my patella, yes, I'm an invalid, Mycroft, but take mind I'm not deaf," Sherlock retorted with a bitter bite. "Although, with the constant way you lecture me, I wish I were."

Mycroft sighed. "I've hired someone."

"Oh, bravo, someone managed to pass your ridiculously high qualifications and is now experiencing the joy of being on your payroll. Have they realised yet that they won't make it to see six months? Shall we celebrate this new employee with a bottle of champagne?" Sherlock asked, throwing his head back for a mocking flair.

"I've hired someone for you," Mycroft said plainly, and the former detective widened his eyes slightly in genuine surprise before reigning in his emotions. He narrowed his gaze at Mycroft. "Did you honestly hire a _nanny_ for me?" he spat. "Am I so _uncontrollable_ and _untrustworthy_ that I am incapable of being left alone in the flat?"

"Sherlock-"

The young man laughed, but there was no trace of humour in his voice. "I do apologise, Mycroft. I forget that I can't walk. I forget that I can't get up from this bedamned chair. I forget I developed muscular bloody dystrophy at the tender age of twenty-nine and now require a _nanny_." He hissed the words, but suddenly his face brightened, clearly coming to some revelation. "I can't do the legwork for a case, _but the nanny can_." Sherlock settled into his wheelchair, already going into his mind palace pose. "Who is it, anyway?"

Mycroft leaned against his umbrella. "Dr John H Watson, recently discharged from the RAMC on accounts of a bullet to the shoulder and psychosomatic tremor in the left hand as well as limp in the left leg. You will _not_ be ordering him to crime scenes, Sherlock."

"Why not?"

"He intends to bring his four-year-old son here, as no one else can watch him."

Sherlock scoffed. "A child? I can handle a child very well on my own. And Dr Watson will most certainly be present at crime scenes of my choosing - I have been told I am _very_ persistent."

Mycroft rubbed his eyes exasperatedly. "I don't care by this time what you do to the good doctor or even the child, Sherlock, just _please_ don't kill them or, worse, scare them off. Dr Watson was the only physician I found willing to work for you."

The former detective grinned. "Oh, you know I don't make a habit of swearing oaths I can't hope to keep." He turned his wheelchair back on Mycroft and resumed his playing.

With that, Mycroft walked out of the room, fervently praying to any god or goddess or higher deity in general that this Dr John H Watson was a man made of iron will and patience of steel.

He would need it to survive day one with Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
